The other evening, I partook in what has become a common practice among children, adults, political activists, entrepreneurs, creepy guys in the weight room: Facebook stalking. Yes, I occasionally meander through the profiles of others, eager to find a juicy tidbit of gossip. However, since no one had compelling status updates or incriminating pictures posted, I stalked myself and found my information page to be very bland. To strangers and random acquaintances, I was merely a single girl who lived in Charlottesville, which does not satisfy the need to make a high school crush who happens upon your page regret turning you down eight years ago. Determined to resolve this issue, I summoned my sharpest wit and began.
Basic information: I could choose to hide my sex or put that I am interested in men, but I think my name indicates the answer to both. I chose to not display my year of birth because now, when I am ashamed to be 32, I do not have to remove the year conspicuously. Not everyone announces relationship status; I realize there are justifications for doing so, but I cannot help but think:
1) You are ashamed of being in a relationship,
2) You are ashamed of not being in a relationship, or
3) You are trying to maintain multiple relationships, or
4) You think your relationship status is an issue that only the selected worthy should know.
Whatever the reason of others, I am single.
About me: This is a crucial bit because if friends pa rousing do not click your info button, this quote will still be seen on the profile. I decided to keep mine as is: Life is short, but sweet for certain.
Profile picture: I have a job that allows me to work in bare feet, so I do not need to impress employers or appear professional. I am sporting a pimp hat, Mardi Gras beads and Shamrock pajama pants, singing. I think the picture highlights my character.
Featured people: I was tempted to add every family member, and one day I will dedicate an hour at work to select every cousin, aunt, uncle, sibling, creating the most epic featured people page Facebook has ever had to store.
Education and Work: Although I would typically have to enhance my job title, search market analyst is sophisticated. Under description I emphasized the ultimate goal global domination via search engines.
Ahhh philosophy; Facebook is getting deep. I try to stay as shallow as possible while briefly describing my life over cyberspace. I vacillate on whether or not to broadcast Christianity, and the decision is even harder now that the picture is a shepherd in terrible lighting. I think we should be able to replace the picture if we choose, in which case my Jesus would look a lot like Leonidas in 300. As it is, I claimed Christianity, and the next person who stalks me after a night out will know this... Perhaps I should now avoid getting too low on the dance floor. I do not put my political beliefs, mainly because I do not claim enough knowledge to defend them, and if I put that Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blond was my inspiration, people may not take me seriously.
Entertainment: When stalking others, musical interest is the first section I analyze as I see it as the greatest superficial window into the soul. I am by no means a musical expert, although those who know me will testify to my impeccable singing ability. However, I do appreciate tastes that span beyond the latest pop sensation, Justin Bieber. My favorite bands ranged from Rascall Flatts to the National to Iron & Wine to Tegan and Sara to Eminem.
If music is a window to the soul then movies are definitely a peephole. Judging my selection, I would pin myself as a hopelessly romantic, intense, funny, twisted nerd.
The next section is a recent addition to Facebook: Sports. Picking a favorite team was surprisingly difficult considering the amount of time I spend watching sports. I realized I cannot claim to be an avid fan of any team except Cleveland Browns, Indians, and Cavs - unfortunately for me. Listing favorite athletes, I simply put every quarterback I imagined myself marrying until Facebook said I had to stop. Probably just as well as my imagination began running away with me.
Finally: Activities. I love the enhancements on this section including description. For instance, I like eating, and I have the option to include with whom I enjoy eating and describing the process. I was tempted to write an elaborate play by play of my method of eating: the caressing of a burger, lightly licking all edges, and then shoving it as far into my mouth as I could. I decided against this.
There I am, in a cyberspace nutshell. What image do I portray? I do not know. However, I revisited my profile this past week and realized my privacy settings had all information blocked. Apparently all stalkers will only know I enjoy St. Patrick's Day, Mardi Gras, and pimp hats. I am okay with that.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Saturday, February 5, 2011
A Productive Week of Work
This week, work was productive on many levels. Prompted by a coworker, I scrubbed my coffee mug until it sparkled, and in doing so, killed any parasite colonies it may be harboring. Second, I created a spreadsheet charting the relative success of ACC, Big Ten, SEC, and Big East schools in basketball and football the past ten years. Although the Big Ten came in a disappointing third place, I did prove my point that they had the most even distribution of athletic ability between the two sports. Third, I used the term "granular" in a correspondence with a client, which I believe increases my credibility as an analyst by at least 22%.
My greatest success this week, however, was with regard to another client. To ensure the anonymity of the latest innocent target of my affections, I will be vague with details. I was introduced to him in October when his company was desperately seeking search engine advertising advice. He was given to me as a client, and we discussed the potential growth my consulting could earn his establishment. While chatting, however, I noticed his voice very nearly resembled that of a post pubescent boy. Upon further investigation, I discovered he was, in fact, only one year removed from college. I thought this interesting, but pursued it no further.
This week our communication began as it usually does as I sent him a weekly report, explaining the various fluctuations in performance. As the week progressed, we spent more time together as he spoke with various product managers within the company about our new offerings. I contributed little to these conversations after the initial introduction, but since it was an excuse to recline in a comfortable chair for an hour, I was more than willing to listen. Since I did not have an active role in the sales pitch, I was able to listen intently. After he incorporated both "pain in the ass" and "holy shit" on the calls, mentioned the fact that he started his business when he was eighteen, and made three references to buying flowers for his mother, I decided he must be worth pursuing. It was time to seriously commit to finding a picture. As is usually the case, persistence and the lack of privacy offered by the Internet led me to a photo, and I am happy to say, the CEO with money and ambition is not extremely hard on the eyes.
The question becomes, since I cannot impress him with my good looks, charming smile, and graceful stride, how can I woo him? Thankfully, my appeal lies not in appearances alone. Considering our communication occurs once a week over the phone and various times via email, I have some ideas. Initially, I considered simply causing his account many issues of concern in order to increase correspondence. However, for the sake of my job, I think it best to enhance, rather than increase.
First, I must write in a manner that sets me apart from others. I will begin with personal salutations such as, "I hope this Monday finds you well, (insert target's name)." I must fore go the consistent lowercase and two syllable words. Incorporating the terms bandwidth, heretofore, superfluous, and the like, certainly help, but I must avoid sounding pretentious. Perhaps sports idioms or references to my non-existent pick up truck and can of tobacco will accomplish this. I will depart with diversified farewells: best, regards, cheers, etc, which are personal, but by no means invasive to the client/analyst relationship.
While emails can have an impact, the most intimate time spent together is on the phone, and this is where I must focus my efforts. It is a difficult hurdle, as I am typically opposed to such exchanges due to the awkward pauses that occur when both parties speak simultaneously. Then, each wants to be polite and let the other begin; personally, I keep talking and wait for the other person to surrender the right to speak. However, with a client, this could be seen as disrespectful, so I must be sure he is finished before responding, while still avoiding the awkward pause. Further, I need to laugh heartily at his jokes about the nuances of business, but not so heartily my voice raises three octaves, which is a common occurrence. I need to say "ummm" and "like" less, and throw in a casual reference to my availability and love for the city in which he resides. Also, I can have no carbonation or fruit up to two hours prior to the call, for that causes acid build up which will inevitably lead to me excusing myself five times in one call.
Most importantly, I have to remind myself never to post this blog on Facebook under my information as a website. Should he ever have the complimentary desire to stalk me, I do not need him stumbling upon a link that will reveal my infatuation.
My greatest success this week, however, was with regard to another client. To ensure the anonymity of the latest innocent target of my affections, I will be vague with details. I was introduced to him in October when his company was desperately seeking search engine advertising advice. He was given to me as a client, and we discussed the potential growth my consulting could earn his establishment. While chatting, however, I noticed his voice very nearly resembled that of a post pubescent boy. Upon further investigation, I discovered he was, in fact, only one year removed from college. I thought this interesting, but pursued it no further.
This week our communication began as it usually does as I sent him a weekly report, explaining the various fluctuations in performance. As the week progressed, we spent more time together as he spoke with various product managers within the company about our new offerings. I contributed little to these conversations after the initial introduction, but since it was an excuse to recline in a comfortable chair for an hour, I was more than willing to listen. Since I did not have an active role in the sales pitch, I was able to listen intently. After he incorporated both "pain in the ass" and "holy shit" on the calls, mentioned the fact that he started his business when he was eighteen, and made three references to buying flowers for his mother, I decided he must be worth pursuing. It was time to seriously commit to finding a picture. As is usually the case, persistence and the lack of privacy offered by the Internet led me to a photo, and I am happy to say, the CEO with money and ambition is not extremely hard on the eyes.
The question becomes, since I cannot impress him with my good looks, charming smile, and graceful stride, how can I woo him? Thankfully, my appeal lies not in appearances alone. Considering our communication occurs once a week over the phone and various times via email, I have some ideas. Initially, I considered simply causing his account many issues of concern in order to increase correspondence. However, for the sake of my job, I think it best to enhance, rather than increase.
First, I must write in a manner that sets me apart from others. I will begin with personal salutations such as, "I hope this Monday finds you well, (insert target's name)." I must fore go the consistent lowercase and two syllable words. Incorporating the terms bandwidth, heretofore, superfluous, and the like, certainly help, but I must avoid sounding pretentious. Perhaps sports idioms or references to my non-existent pick up truck and can of tobacco will accomplish this. I will depart with diversified farewells: best, regards, cheers, etc, which are personal, but by no means invasive to the client/analyst relationship.
While emails can have an impact, the most intimate time spent together is on the phone, and this is where I must focus my efforts. It is a difficult hurdle, as I am typically opposed to such exchanges due to the awkward pauses that occur when both parties speak simultaneously. Then, each wants to be polite and let the other begin; personally, I keep talking and wait for the other person to surrender the right to speak. However, with a client, this could be seen as disrespectful, so I must be sure he is finished before responding, while still avoiding the awkward pause. Further, I need to laugh heartily at his jokes about the nuances of business, but not so heartily my voice raises three octaves, which is a common occurrence. I need to say "ummm" and "like" less, and throw in a casual reference to my availability and love for the city in which he resides. Also, I can have no carbonation or fruit up to two hours prior to the call, for that causes acid build up which will inevitably lead to me excusing myself five times in one call.
Most importantly, I have to remind myself never to post this blog on Facebook under my information as a website. Should he ever have the complimentary desire to stalk me, I do not need him stumbling upon a link that will reveal my infatuation.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
My Personal Mecca
Grocery shopping has always been a cathartic experience for me. I walk through the automatic doors as a Jedi walks into another dimension, entering a universe where the biggest obstacle is deciding the variety of peanut butter, chips, yogurt, or paper towels. With that said, I will not downplay the magnitude of such decisions, as the process often involves much analysis.
However, as of late, I have dreaded all errands, especially because we just received January's bills and a bit of my soul is lost with every swipe of my credit card. Additionally, I have yet to find a time when Charlottesville's grocery stores are not bustling with carts just wide enough to make maneuvering through the aisles impossible. This weekend, I am happy to say, our passion for one another was renewed, possibly even deepened.
I went to Barracks shopping center at 9 o'clock, early enough to justify a mocha. I approached the magic doors. My spirits warmed, I entered the store and my trip began as it always does, with an inward battle as to whether or not I should commit to eating more fruits and vegetables. About the time I decided to select a couple apples and peppers, the caffeine began circulating rapidly, and I decided to add another dimension to my mission - frugality. Determined to maximize my cost to produce efficiency, I began.
There are a couple strategic lessons I learned, and I think it would be to your benefit if I shared them.
First, green peppers are cheaper than red and orange, but it is not just because the unusual vegetable colors are aesthetically appealing in an otherwise bland salad. Green peppers are actually unripened and therefore have a longer shelf life, which makes them less desirable. With apples, however, I believe the price is based on the sexual association of the name, which is why I had to purchase the Granny Smith rather than the Golden Delicious.
B: Drink organic milk. The expiration date is always a month later than processed milk; plus, you can feel environmentally conscious.
Third, you can freeze almost anything. If the grocery store can sell you frozen vegetables, then you can certainly capitalize on the two for one packaged deli turkey deal and freeze one of the two.
D: Another step the grocers take to guide sojourners is marking each product with a per ounce/per each price. Therefore, the cereal companies who gradually shrink their boxes do not exploit the naive consumer. You do, however, have to squint to take advantage of said values, so it is probable that individuals do not expend that much energy.
There are, however, caveats to this helpful tip, which nearly cost me an extra ten cents. I was meandering through the laundry detergent section, and while two detergents were 16.7 cents per ounce, after further calculating, one was 16.76 cents. This is a genius move on the part of Tide, because if there is one lesson I learned from Office Space, it is that decimals matter. Additionally, if the product does not have a per ounce price, it is probably just too expensive to be sitting on my cupboard.
Finally - and I realize this may seem contradictory to my former point about cereal boxes - NEVER sacrifice price for quality on cereal. Every other item is negotiable, but on this point, there is no compromise. Cereal is the foundation of every day, and whether it is Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Apple Cinnamon Cheerios, or even that unusually healthy granola about which adults rave, it needs to be of the highest quality.
After I spent an hour wandering pointedly about the establishment, with the occasional mental lapse due to an inspiring song chosen by the highly esteemed grocery store DJs, I walked to the register, anxious to see my overall savings. Of course, I was also distracted by the multitude of candy, gadgets, and gismos near the register. After I added chap stick, gum, a cookies and cream bar, batteries, lighters and nail clippers, the clerk began tallying my merchandise.
I am happy to say I had final savings of twenty dollars. However, since most of the deals were two for one, I have to go eat my plethora of peppers, sausage, salmon, hummus and bread before my hard earned savings spoil.
However, as of late, I have dreaded all errands, especially because we just received January's bills and a bit of my soul is lost with every swipe of my credit card. Additionally, I have yet to find a time when Charlottesville's grocery stores are not bustling with carts just wide enough to make maneuvering through the aisles impossible. This weekend, I am happy to say, our passion for one another was renewed, possibly even deepened.
I went to Barracks shopping center at 9 o'clock, early enough to justify a mocha. I approached the magic doors. My spirits warmed, I entered the store and my trip began as it always does, with an inward battle as to whether or not I should commit to eating more fruits and vegetables. About the time I decided to select a couple apples and peppers, the caffeine began circulating rapidly, and I decided to add another dimension to my mission - frugality. Determined to maximize my cost to produce efficiency, I began.
There are a couple strategic lessons I learned, and I think it would be to your benefit if I shared them.
First, green peppers are cheaper than red and orange, but it is not just because the unusual vegetable colors are aesthetically appealing in an otherwise bland salad. Green peppers are actually unripened and therefore have a longer shelf life, which makes them less desirable. With apples, however, I believe the price is based on the sexual association of the name, which is why I had to purchase the Granny Smith rather than the Golden Delicious.
B: Drink organic milk. The expiration date is always a month later than processed milk; plus, you can feel environmentally conscious.
Third, you can freeze almost anything. If the grocery store can sell you frozen vegetables, then you can certainly capitalize on the two for one packaged deli turkey deal and freeze one of the two.
D: Another step the grocers take to guide sojourners is marking each product with a per ounce/per each price. Therefore, the cereal companies who gradually shrink their boxes do not exploit the naive consumer. You do, however, have to squint to take advantage of said values, so it is probable that individuals do not expend that much energy.
There are, however, caveats to this helpful tip, which nearly cost me an extra ten cents. I was meandering through the laundry detergent section, and while two detergents were 16.7 cents per ounce, after further calculating, one was 16.76 cents. This is a genius move on the part of Tide, because if there is one lesson I learned from Office Space, it is that decimals matter. Additionally, if the product does not have a per ounce price, it is probably just too expensive to be sitting on my cupboard.
Finally - and I realize this may seem contradictory to my former point about cereal boxes - NEVER sacrifice price for quality on cereal. Every other item is negotiable, but on this point, there is no compromise. Cereal is the foundation of every day, and whether it is Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Apple Cinnamon Cheerios, or even that unusually healthy granola about which adults rave, it needs to be of the highest quality.
After I spent an hour wandering pointedly about the establishment, with the occasional mental lapse due to an inspiring song chosen by the highly esteemed grocery store DJs, I walked to the register, anxious to see my overall savings. Of course, I was also distracted by the multitude of candy, gadgets, and gismos near the register. After I added chap stick, gum, a cookies and cream bar, batteries, lighters and nail clippers, the clerk began tallying my merchandise.
I am happy to say I had final savings of twenty dollars. However, since most of the deals were two for one, I have to go eat my plethora of peppers, sausage, salmon, hummus and bread before my hard earned savings spoil.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
I Never Knew if it was the DMV or BMV
The answer is: both.
Readers, I warn you: this post is not for the faint of heart. I consider myself a perpetual optimist, able to find the proverbial light at the end of all tunnels and await the bountiful harvest after seasons of rain. In the depths of despair, a simple smile from a stranger will renew my spirit. However, there are some adversaries so cruel, even I cannot find a glimmer of hope. The adversary of which I speak is the DMV, and as the acronym indicates, this story has no happy ending.
A week and a half ago, I was having an innocent glass of wine with friends. My pants had no pockets, so logically, I stored my credit card and license in my leggings. Yes, a purse or wallet may seem more reasonable, but each has proven itself an inefficient means to secure valuables in the past. Upon returning home, I discovered my license had vanished, and after further investigatory efforts proved fatal, I had to face reality. To restore my identity, I would have to venture to the Department of Motor Vehicles, the very shadow of death.
Really, I have no reason to begrudge the DMV. Other than failing my driver's test two times, my interactions with the department have been brief and pleasant. They may have tellers who ask me if Cinco de Mayo is always on the fifth of May, but as a whole, the atmosphere is bearable.
Still, whenever I enter the DMV, I have the perpetual fear that I will walk up to the information desk, present my records, and be informed that I am actually an alien, at which point I will be deported to my home country. Certainly an adventure, and as I waited forty minutes to approach the Charlottesville information desk, I determined that were I sent back, I would introduce peanut butter cups and earn instant fame.
While the woman did not send me on the first flight out of the US, she did tell me that since I am not a resident of Virginia, I need proof that I had a license. And so we reach our catch 22. I need a new license to replace a lost license, but without this lost license, I cannot get a new license to replace it. Further, even if I have the license number, expiration date, date of issue, license class, birth certificate, passport, social security card, pay stub, car insurance, and five pictures of various relatives in my wallet, their computer system does not possess the technology to find my license. I find it hard to believe that in this age of technology, a computer capable of beating THE Ken Jennings in Jeopardy can be developed, but the DMV lingers in a relative stone age.
On second thought, I do not doubt it, especially after this experience. I tried to reason with the teller, who was probably used to victims such as I pleading their cases, as to how it is possible for the cops to look up my driving record, but impossible for the DMV. She told me police officers need the license as well, which begs the question, if I get pulled over in a state without a license, should they not arrest me for fear I am illegally behind the wheel? She told me I would be ticketed for not having a license were this the case, but if I live in another state and the DMVs that have my record do not communicate or have access to computer systems, how can the state of Ohio know that I have a ticket in Virginia? If this were reality, I could accept the minor inconveniences of replacing licenses for the benefit of those who avoid paying out of state tickets. As it is, the states communicate, because this has happened, and I have had to pay. The preceding thought process may have been excessive, but if you managed to follow, I think you can understand my frustration.
The teller certainly did- either that or she wanted me to shut up- but her only comfort was that the government was working on it. Good to know.
She did offer me an alternative solution, which was to present a copy of the abstract. I was aware of this option after my trip to the DMV last weekend, and had my unofficial abstract printed. Incidentally, this also made me aware of the fact that I will lose my license should I be ticketed in the next three months. That aside, the documentation was obviously not sufficient, and although it came directly from the website of the Ohio BMV (another nuance, some states have DMVs, while others have BMVs), I would need a hard copy that went through an obligatory fourteen day waiting period in order to be labeled "official."
She suggested I have the abstract faxed, at which point my eyes glistened for the first time throughout this ordeal. I called the Chardon License Bureau with high hopes, only to be redirected to the Columbus License Bureau, the only office with the authority to fax such important documents. I called once, twice, three times, but the line was busy, and with every beep, my spirits sunk. After twenty minutes of failed attempts, my name was called, and on the verge of tears, I approached the front desk and told the woman she could do nothing for me, other than explain to me why an office does not have call waiting or two phone lines in 2011. I exited the building, dejected and downtrodden, expressing my just frustration in a manner which made the man beside me chuckle. If he only knew...
If nothing else, this is another example of government inefficiency at its finest; the license bureaus will always be necessary and will always have a monopoly in the market for driving permissions. Therefore, they will consider making the system more efficient, as my tax dollars go to paying some girl in Ohio to respond to an online request for a copy of my driving record while she facebook chats her boyfriend on the other screen. Various information throughout the state systems will indeed come together, but only when it is convenient for them. Perhaps the office will look into that new-fangled commodity called the "hold" button, but talking to more than one person on the phone seems a bit ridiculous.
Meanwhile, I refuse to go through the permit process in Virginia for fear that I will actually fail the driver's test. Instead, my heart will jump every time I see sirens, knowing that while this town has multiple miscreants and deviants, the cops will prey on the poor girl from the Midwest who simply misplaced her license. I will drive around with my passport, birth certificate, and car insurance, hoping that the next cop who pulls me over will believe I have a license when he looks at all the concert tickets I have stored where my license once resided.
While this story has no tangible positive outcome, I find solace in the hope that an underage blond hair, blue eyed girl stumbled upon the license and is gallivanting gaily about Charlottesville bars. I suppose I am an eternal optimist, after all.
Readers, I warn you: this post is not for the faint of heart. I consider myself a perpetual optimist, able to find the proverbial light at the end of all tunnels and await the bountiful harvest after seasons of rain. In the depths of despair, a simple smile from a stranger will renew my spirit. However, there are some adversaries so cruel, even I cannot find a glimmer of hope. The adversary of which I speak is the DMV, and as the acronym indicates, this story has no happy ending.
A week and a half ago, I was having an innocent glass of wine with friends. My pants had no pockets, so logically, I stored my credit card and license in my leggings. Yes, a purse or wallet may seem more reasonable, but each has proven itself an inefficient means to secure valuables in the past. Upon returning home, I discovered my license had vanished, and after further investigatory efforts proved fatal, I had to face reality. To restore my identity, I would have to venture to the Department of Motor Vehicles, the very shadow of death.
Really, I have no reason to begrudge the DMV. Other than failing my driver's test two times, my interactions with the department have been brief and pleasant. They may have tellers who ask me if Cinco de Mayo is always on the fifth of May, but as a whole, the atmosphere is bearable.
Still, whenever I enter the DMV, I have the perpetual fear that I will walk up to the information desk, present my records, and be informed that I am actually an alien, at which point I will be deported to my home country. Certainly an adventure, and as I waited forty minutes to approach the Charlottesville information desk, I determined that were I sent back, I would introduce peanut butter cups and earn instant fame.
While the woman did not send me on the first flight out of the US, she did tell me that since I am not a resident of Virginia, I need proof that I had a license. And so we reach our catch 22. I need a new license to replace a lost license, but without this lost license, I cannot get a new license to replace it. Further, even if I have the license number, expiration date, date of issue, license class, birth certificate, passport, social security card, pay stub, car insurance, and five pictures of various relatives in my wallet, their computer system does not possess the technology to find my license. I find it hard to believe that in this age of technology, a computer capable of beating THE Ken Jennings in Jeopardy can be developed, but the DMV lingers in a relative stone age.
On second thought, I do not doubt it, especially after this experience. I tried to reason with the teller, who was probably used to victims such as I pleading their cases, as to how it is possible for the cops to look up my driving record, but impossible for the DMV. She told me police officers need the license as well, which begs the question, if I get pulled over in a state without a license, should they not arrest me for fear I am illegally behind the wheel? She told me I would be ticketed for not having a license were this the case, but if I live in another state and the DMVs that have my record do not communicate or have access to computer systems, how can the state of Ohio know that I have a ticket in Virginia? If this were reality, I could accept the minor inconveniences of replacing licenses for the benefit of those who avoid paying out of state tickets. As it is, the states communicate, because this has happened, and I have had to pay. The preceding thought process may have been excessive, but if you managed to follow, I think you can understand my frustration.
The teller certainly did- either that or she wanted me to shut up- but her only comfort was that the government was working on it. Good to know.
She did offer me an alternative solution, which was to present a copy of the abstract. I was aware of this option after my trip to the DMV last weekend, and had my unofficial abstract printed. Incidentally, this also made me aware of the fact that I will lose my license should I be ticketed in the next three months. That aside, the documentation was obviously not sufficient, and although it came directly from the website of the Ohio BMV (another nuance, some states have DMVs, while others have BMVs), I would need a hard copy that went through an obligatory fourteen day waiting period in order to be labeled "official."
She suggested I have the abstract faxed, at which point my eyes glistened for the first time throughout this ordeal. I called the Chardon License Bureau with high hopes, only to be redirected to the Columbus License Bureau, the only office with the authority to fax such important documents. I called once, twice, three times, but the line was busy, and with every beep, my spirits sunk. After twenty minutes of failed attempts, my name was called, and on the verge of tears, I approached the front desk and told the woman she could do nothing for me, other than explain to me why an office does not have call waiting or two phone lines in 2011. I exited the building, dejected and downtrodden, expressing my just frustration in a manner which made the man beside me chuckle. If he only knew...
If nothing else, this is another example of government inefficiency at its finest; the license bureaus will always be necessary and will always have a monopoly in the market for driving permissions. Therefore, they will consider making the system more efficient, as my tax dollars go to paying some girl in Ohio to respond to an online request for a copy of my driving record while she facebook chats her boyfriend on the other screen. Various information throughout the state systems will indeed come together, but only when it is convenient for them. Perhaps the office will look into that new-fangled commodity called the "hold" button, but talking to more than one person on the phone seems a bit ridiculous.
Meanwhile, I refuse to go through the permit process in Virginia for fear that I will actually fail the driver's test. Instead, my heart will jump every time I see sirens, knowing that while this town has multiple miscreants and deviants, the cops will prey on the poor girl from the Midwest who simply misplaced her license. I will drive around with my passport, birth certificate, and car insurance, hoping that the next cop who pulls me over will believe I have a license when he looks at all the concert tickets I have stored where my license once resided.
While this story has no tangible positive outcome, I find solace in the hope that an underage blond hair, blue eyed girl stumbled upon the license and is gallivanting gaily about Charlottesville bars. I suppose I am an eternal optimist, after all.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
The Son Really Does Improve Your Spirits
I have been very happy as of late. The reason may be that I rekindled my relationship with the weight room. The sight of men wearing my nephew's hand-me-down t-shirts and women doing their personal kickboxing in front of the entire aerobic area will always put a smile on my face. Not only have I made my gym membership valuable again, I began a mixed doubles winter league, where I apparently fit the description, "short and looks like she could run like the wind." Playing with the elderly is definitely an ego boost to which I could grow accustomed. To be fair, though, the competition is quite good, and my game is being forced to improve. The reason could also be that the sun actually shines between the months of December and April in Virginia, a natural phenomenon to anyone from Cleveland.
While all these aspects of my current state are great, I believe the source of my renewed vigor runs deeper. This past Sunday, I made my usual pact with God- if I should awake by the hour of ten, I would attend church. This may seem as though I am avoiding church, but this is not the case, for if I am to sleep uncharacteristically late, I assume it must be for the improvement of my overall well-being.
The past four months I have been attending various churches, trying to find a place that I can only describe as "right for me." Although this may be an obscure qualification, it is difficult seeking a church among so many that have similar values. Admittedly, the search has been less than rigorous, as I found it much akin to dating. Sure, every one seems nice and they all may have good intentions, but how do I know at what point to commit? I do not want to be too quick to judge, but I also do not want to dive in purely for the purpose of arbitrary involvement, as I know this will only lead to a dysfunctional relationship where neither party benefits.
So it was that on this particular Sunday that I awoke at a reasonable hour and ventured to Christ Community Church. It is difficult to articulate spiritual matters, and I am much better at conveying humiliating stories, so I will simply say I believe God showed me that I belonged there. I was welcomed by many strangers, and honestly, I have never been treated so kindly upon initial introductions in my life. The more people I met, the more connections I had, which is an act of Providence itself, as I have only lived here four months.
I am continually amazed at what the Lord is capable of doing when I lay down my pride and allow him to work. By no means do I think I have reached a point where I can settle or cease striving; in fact, I feel more strongly that I need to break down the many barriers I have built. I do believe, though, I have reached a point of significance. A point where I am not only open to being challenged, giving myself to others, and growing, but I also have a place to facilitate those desires. It is a very peaceful point.
While all these aspects of my current state are great, I believe the source of my renewed vigor runs deeper. This past Sunday, I made my usual pact with God- if I should awake by the hour of ten, I would attend church. This may seem as though I am avoiding church, but this is not the case, for if I am to sleep uncharacteristically late, I assume it must be for the improvement of my overall well-being.
The past four months I have been attending various churches, trying to find a place that I can only describe as "right for me." Although this may be an obscure qualification, it is difficult seeking a church among so many that have similar values. Admittedly, the search has been less than rigorous, as I found it much akin to dating. Sure, every one seems nice and they all may have good intentions, but how do I know at what point to commit? I do not want to be too quick to judge, but I also do not want to dive in purely for the purpose of arbitrary involvement, as I know this will only lead to a dysfunctional relationship where neither party benefits.
So it was that on this particular Sunday that I awoke at a reasonable hour and ventured to Christ Community Church. It is difficult to articulate spiritual matters, and I am much better at conveying humiliating stories, so I will simply say I believe God showed me that I belonged there. I was welcomed by many strangers, and honestly, I have never been treated so kindly upon initial introductions in my life. The more people I met, the more connections I had, which is an act of Providence itself, as I have only lived here four months.
I am continually amazed at what the Lord is capable of doing when I lay down my pride and allow him to work. By no means do I think I have reached a point where I can settle or cease striving; in fact, I feel more strongly that I need to break down the many barriers I have built. I do believe, though, I have reached a point of significance. A point where I am not only open to being challenged, giving myself to others, and growing, but I also have a place to facilitate those desires. It is a very peaceful point.
Monday, December 27, 2010
ETD Does Not Matter, As Long As There Is Christmas Ale
I fear that the holiday season has gotten the best of me. I broke communication with the blogosphere, but please do not be offended, as I also broke correspondence with the gym and the scale. Since my two alternatives this evening are to put an end to my sedentary lifestyle or unpack, I return to discuss my journey home.
Holiday travel has been a source of minor controversy between my father and me. He obviously is not thrilled by the idea of me driving for eight hours, and I do not blame him. My driving record could certainly be referenced to prove the dangers of such travel. However, I like the sense of control gained from being behind the wheel, and thoroughly dislike the unreliable organization of flying. Yes, I have to be on time for the flight or I am cast aside with no consideration, but the flight has no loyalty or responsibility to me. What kind of dysfunctional relationship is that?
This Christmas, upon his relentless insistence, I decided to fly home. I departed Wednesday before the sun rose, and the journey was surprisingly pleasant. I met a lovely woman en route D.C. and we spent the entire flight talking entirely too much considering the ungodly hour. My father met me in Cleveland, and it was great to have a captive audience for forty-five minutes as I rambled about the current events in my life. Although this drive may have made him reconsider asking me to fly, I believe he enjoyed the conversation as much as I did.
However, the fates were clearly on a mission to vindicate my apprehension toward air travel. Saturday night, I received a text offering me a sideline pass to the Browns game. Despite my disdain for communication via text, if there is a chance I will make eye contact with Colt McCoy involved, I will accept them. As it was, I had a plane to catch Sunday afternoon, so I would not be able to make the game. Since my presence may have spurred the Browns to victory, this was not only a major loss for myself, but also a devastating blow to the city of Cleveland.
Yes, I was going to miss the opportunity to stand in the twenty degree, snowy weather and witness yet another Cleveland loss, but at least I would get to Charlottesville at a decent hour. As is the case with flying in the winter, though, this was not true. I walked to the gate of my plane, only to learn that the flight had been delayed two and a half hours due to inclement weather in Charlotte- meaning there was a small dusting of snow.
At this point, I was faced with various options. I could read a book, take a nap, or drink a beer and watch football. Since I am opposed to intellectual stimulation, I opted not to read, and if I took a nap, I would not be able to sleep on the plane. Instead, I decided to drink a beer in the hopes that I would be in a prime state to pass out before the stewardess told me how to fasten my seat belt. Practical, I know.
I sat down at the bar and decided to order a glass of wine, showing a bit of class. It was during my glass of wine that a man ordered Christmas Ale. I immediately told everyone within earshot of my family's recently discovered method of drinking the beer in a honey-rimmed glass dipped in cinnamon and brown sugar. Obviously, this led to vocal accolades of the Great Lakes Brew, and as the man returned to his table, the girl beside me and I began talking. Conversation started with a mutual love of Christmas Ale and expanded to our jobs, school, and family. While I do not believe I will ever see Lisa again, I do wish her well in Seattle.
All this talk of Christmas Ale had made me seriously reconsider my initial choice of beverage, and since I still had an hour until boarding, I paid eight dollars for my final beer of the season. As I took my first sip, a gentleman took Lisa's seat and ordered his first Christmas ale. How an individual can go through twenty two years in Cleveland and have never tasted the beer is a crime, but I forgave the guy since he had skin of a perfect mocha shade and glistening green eyes. After reprimanding him for avoiding the beer all these years, our conversation blossomed. He was a charming individual who now lives in Dallas and is beginning a start up website comparable to Facebook. Honestly, I think it could be a great idea; it is a site where one can anonymously vent and ask for advice, and everyone I know always needs advice. Of course, with those eyes, he could have told me he was thinking of starting a site dedicated to only foreplay involving feet, and I would have told him to sign me up. This relationship ended as quickly as the last, although he did leave me with a new R&B CD and his full name. I went to hand him my business card, but alas, I had already given it to the woman I met on an earlier flight. Apparently, those puppies are in higher demand than I anticipated.
When he left, the guy sitting to my left initiated conversation. He had tried to do so multiple times before, but I was as politely callous as possible, discretely trying to relay the message that I had a gorgeous guy on my right who was consuming my attention. Harsh, perhaps, but I did not feel as bad once I discovered he had a girlfriend. He only plays a significant role in my story because he was escorted off our flight after being rude to the stewardess who told him he would need to check his bag. Again, this is a shame, but entertaining nonetheless.
As anticipated, the alcohol knocked me out, and I slept quite unattractively the duration of the flight. Upon landing in Charlotte, I was met with similar choices, and again, I opted to sit at a bar. As I drank my water, the guy beside me asked where I was flying, a very non-threatening question at an airport. One cannot judge creeps as quickly in an airport, as everyone is by themselves, and who am I to blame another for craving interaction. I am not opposed to conversation, and I had just overheard him order a sandwich, so we spoke. When his meal was delivered, I expressed my intense craving for fries; he obviously could not resist my starving eyes and gave me a handful. I rewarded him with continued conversation.
The last leg of my journey had finally arrived, and at twelve thirty, we landed in Charlottesville. Of course, I still had to catch a cab ride home, during which the driver and I chatted about his daughter, grandchildren, and years on the job. He told me I was lovely, and I think I made his night, but probably more because I was his only customer and paid sixty five dollars as he took the longest way possible to my house.
As for me, although it cost four hundred dollars for the ticket, twenty dollars for airport alcohol, six dollars for the bag of trail mix, fifty dollars to check my bags, and sixty five dollars for a ride home, I did get a free CD and a handful of french fries. Perhaps flying is not so bad, after all.
Holiday travel has been a source of minor controversy between my father and me. He obviously is not thrilled by the idea of me driving for eight hours, and I do not blame him. My driving record could certainly be referenced to prove the dangers of such travel. However, I like the sense of control gained from being behind the wheel, and thoroughly dislike the unreliable organization of flying. Yes, I have to be on time for the flight or I am cast aside with no consideration, but the flight has no loyalty or responsibility to me. What kind of dysfunctional relationship is that?
This Christmas, upon his relentless insistence, I decided to fly home. I departed Wednesday before the sun rose, and the journey was surprisingly pleasant. I met a lovely woman en route D.C. and we spent the entire flight talking entirely too much considering the ungodly hour. My father met me in Cleveland, and it was great to have a captive audience for forty-five minutes as I rambled about the current events in my life. Although this drive may have made him reconsider asking me to fly, I believe he enjoyed the conversation as much as I did.
However, the fates were clearly on a mission to vindicate my apprehension toward air travel. Saturday night, I received a text offering me a sideline pass to the Browns game. Despite my disdain for communication via text, if there is a chance I will make eye contact with Colt McCoy involved, I will accept them. As it was, I had a plane to catch Sunday afternoon, so I would not be able to make the game. Since my presence may have spurred the Browns to victory, this was not only a major loss for myself, but also a devastating blow to the city of Cleveland.
Yes, I was going to miss the opportunity to stand in the twenty degree, snowy weather and witness yet another Cleveland loss, but at least I would get to Charlottesville at a decent hour. As is the case with flying in the winter, though, this was not true. I walked to the gate of my plane, only to learn that the flight had been delayed two and a half hours due to inclement weather in Charlotte- meaning there was a small dusting of snow.
At this point, I was faced with various options. I could read a book, take a nap, or drink a beer and watch football. Since I am opposed to intellectual stimulation, I opted not to read, and if I took a nap, I would not be able to sleep on the plane. Instead, I decided to drink a beer in the hopes that I would be in a prime state to pass out before the stewardess told me how to fasten my seat belt. Practical, I know.
I sat down at the bar and decided to order a glass of wine, showing a bit of class. It was during my glass of wine that a man ordered Christmas Ale. I immediately told everyone within earshot of my family's recently discovered method of drinking the beer in a honey-rimmed glass dipped in cinnamon and brown sugar. Obviously, this led to vocal accolades of the Great Lakes Brew, and as the man returned to his table, the girl beside me and I began talking. Conversation started with a mutual love of Christmas Ale and expanded to our jobs, school, and family. While I do not believe I will ever see Lisa again, I do wish her well in Seattle.
All this talk of Christmas Ale had made me seriously reconsider my initial choice of beverage, and since I still had an hour until boarding, I paid eight dollars for my final beer of the season. As I took my first sip, a gentleman took Lisa's seat and ordered his first Christmas ale. How an individual can go through twenty two years in Cleveland and have never tasted the beer is a crime, but I forgave the guy since he had skin of a perfect mocha shade and glistening green eyes. After reprimanding him for avoiding the beer all these years, our conversation blossomed. He was a charming individual who now lives in Dallas and is beginning a start up website comparable to Facebook. Honestly, I think it could be a great idea; it is a site where one can anonymously vent and ask for advice, and everyone I know always needs advice. Of course, with those eyes, he could have told me he was thinking of starting a site dedicated to only foreplay involving feet, and I would have told him to sign me up. This relationship ended as quickly as the last, although he did leave me with a new R&B CD and his full name. I went to hand him my business card, but alas, I had already given it to the woman I met on an earlier flight. Apparently, those puppies are in higher demand than I anticipated.
When he left, the guy sitting to my left initiated conversation. He had tried to do so multiple times before, but I was as politely callous as possible, discretely trying to relay the message that I had a gorgeous guy on my right who was consuming my attention. Harsh, perhaps, but I did not feel as bad once I discovered he had a girlfriend. He only plays a significant role in my story because he was escorted off our flight after being rude to the stewardess who told him he would need to check his bag. Again, this is a shame, but entertaining nonetheless.
As anticipated, the alcohol knocked me out, and I slept quite unattractively the duration of the flight. Upon landing in Charlotte, I was met with similar choices, and again, I opted to sit at a bar. As I drank my water, the guy beside me asked where I was flying, a very non-threatening question at an airport. One cannot judge creeps as quickly in an airport, as everyone is by themselves, and who am I to blame another for craving interaction. I am not opposed to conversation, and I had just overheard him order a sandwich, so we spoke. When his meal was delivered, I expressed my intense craving for fries; he obviously could not resist my starving eyes and gave me a handful. I rewarded him with continued conversation.
The last leg of my journey had finally arrived, and at twelve thirty, we landed in Charlottesville. Of course, I still had to catch a cab ride home, during which the driver and I chatted about his daughter, grandchildren, and years on the job. He told me I was lovely, and I think I made his night, but probably more because I was his only customer and paid sixty five dollars as he took the longest way possible to my house.
As for me, although it cost four hundred dollars for the ticket, twenty dollars for airport alcohol, six dollars for the bag of trail mix, fifty dollars to check my bags, and sixty five dollars for a ride home, I did get a free CD and a handful of french fries. Perhaps flying is not so bad, after all.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
My New Address
I was sitting on my porch this evening, imbibing the crisp fall air as my dinner digested, when I received a call from a 216 number. Some people screen their calls, and I think this is a bit pretentious, unless you are running from creditors, bookies, or the cops. Personally, I love the excitement of not knowing who is on the other end. Perhaps it is a long lost friend whose number had been erased throughout numerous phone changes or that random guy to whom I accidentally gave my number after a few drinks. Whoever it is, if they are calling, they deserve to talk to me. I answered, only to be met with the voice of a young college student requesting I give money to the John Carroll Blue and Gold Club... and that is why people screen their calls. Although not prevalent to my story, I did get suckered into donating money; I also requested that my money be funneled toward the tennis team fund, which, with the addition of my twenty five dollars, would probably increase two-fold.
The young gentleman informed me of his position and went on to ask for my information. Was I still residing at 12444 Woodin Road? (Although he did not use the word residing, as it has three syllables and is too robust for a freshman at John Carroll.) No, I was not. Giving him my new address, I recited the only other address I have ever verbalized, 4193 Wyncote Road, that small college street that once made the news for its exorbitant number of robberies. But no, that was not my address, either.
Earlier this week, I was visited by a dear friend from home. It was refreshing to see a familiar face and rewarding to reveal a glimpse of my new life to someone so close to me. It was also bizarre. As I rambled about my job, roommates, and miscellaneous Charlottesville adventures, I realized that he was no longer a part of these stories. Beyond that, no one was. Those whose company I have always cherished, and always will cherish, have become part of my past. They will, of course, be part of my future as well, but this particular adventure is one all of my own.
Perhaps it is because the holidays are quickly approaching, but I have been thinking about going back to Cleveland recently. I am very excited, and it will be wonderful to enjoy the company of friends and family. I will go out for dinner or a drink and it will be as if no time has passed. I will go to Grandma's on Thanksgiving and fight over who gets the turkey skin and inevitably eat way too much, no matter the pep talk I give my stomach beforehand. We will sit at home and watch hours of football, possibly breaking out the classic Navatsyk home videos. I will hug Caleb and Briella and hope that my absence has only made their hearts grow fonder, although I fear this adage only applies after a certain age. However, when I pull into 12444 Woodin Road, I will not be entering the driveway of my home. My home is 983 Pintail Lane. Honestly, I would not have it any other way.
The young gentleman informed me of his position and went on to ask for my information. Was I still residing at 12444 Woodin Road? (Although he did not use the word residing, as it has three syllables and is too robust for a freshman at John Carroll.) No, I was not. Giving him my new address, I recited the only other address I have ever verbalized, 4193 Wyncote Road, that small college street that once made the news for its exorbitant number of robberies. But no, that was not my address, either.
Earlier this week, I was visited by a dear friend from home. It was refreshing to see a familiar face and rewarding to reveal a glimpse of my new life to someone so close to me. It was also bizarre. As I rambled about my job, roommates, and miscellaneous Charlottesville adventures, I realized that he was no longer a part of these stories. Beyond that, no one was. Those whose company I have always cherished, and always will cherish, have become part of my past. They will, of course, be part of my future as well, but this particular adventure is one all of my own.
Perhaps it is because the holidays are quickly approaching, but I have been thinking about going back to Cleveland recently. I am very excited, and it will be wonderful to enjoy the company of friends and family. I will go out for dinner or a drink and it will be as if no time has passed. I will go to Grandma's on Thanksgiving and fight over who gets the turkey skin and inevitably eat way too much, no matter the pep talk I give my stomach beforehand. We will sit at home and watch hours of football, possibly breaking out the classic Navatsyk home videos. I will hug Caleb and Briella and hope that my absence has only made their hearts grow fonder, although I fear this adage only applies after a certain age. However, when I pull into 12444 Woodin Road, I will not be entering the driveway of my home. My home is 983 Pintail Lane. Honestly, I would not have it any other way.
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